


Breaking the Fall

by helsinkibaby



Series: Novembers Past [6]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Minor Character Backstory, post ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-10-01
Updated: 2001-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-13 10:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby tells Ginger about Mrs Landingham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking the Fall

It often takes me a while to get to sleep. Working at the White House is a huge adrenaline rush most days, and it always takes me a while to wind down. Today -or yesterday I suppose- was no exception. Actually, that's not true. It was worse than usual. Toby took Bonnie and me aside and told us about the President. That he has Multiple Sclerosis and has been living with it for eight years. In secret. And while we were trying to digest that, he told us that there was an announcement of it to the American people on Wednesday.

This, it must be remembered, was Monday.

So he has to write what must be the one of the, if not the, most important speeches that he's written in his life, and it has to be done by Wednesday evening.

After which all hell will surely break loose in the West Wing.

In other words? Don't count on sleeping much in the next few months.

In what can only be described as a momentary instant of madness, Toby came to Bonnie and me last night, telling us that he and the rest of the Senior Staff were going for dinner, that they'd be back at nine o'clock, but that there was nothing that we could do, so why didn't we take off?

We didn't have to be told twice.

Normally if I have an early mark from Toby, I go out, go to the movies, catch up with friends, do something to remind myself of what a normal life might feel like. But not this time. I was so tired, so shocked, so scared of the future that I made myself a dinner, looked at a video and went to bed early, falling asleep the instant my head hit the pillow.

Which is why I resent being woken up in the middle of the night by an insistent ringing of my doorbell, punctuated by someone banging on my door. I check the fluorescent display on my alarm clock, and wonder what in the world can bring someone to my door in such a state at almost five o'clock in the morning.

OK, so the alarm clock would go off in another half-hour or so anyway, but that's not the point right now.

I find my robe and pull it on over my night-shirt, stumbling through my bedroom in the darkness, only hitting the lights when I get to the living room. I wince at the brightness and once again curse whoever was foolish enough to come to my door at this hour of the night. The ringing and banging hasn't let up, and it's going to disturb my neighbours for sure, but caution still stops me from opening the door straight away. Checking the peephole, I'm startled at the sight I see, and I step away and blink before checking again.

It's Toby.

Toby Ziegler, my boss Toby Ziegler, is at my apartment at five in the morning.

I didn't even know that Toby knew where I lived.

I'm too shocked, too sleep-addled, to wonder what he's doing here anymore, and opening the door seems like a much better idea. I fumble with the locks and yank open the door.

He stands there, arm raised to knock again before he realises that there's no door in front of him anymore, just me. "Hey Ginger," he finally says, like it's the most normal thing in the world for him to be standing there.

"Toby, it's five in the morning," I tell him, as if he doesn't know that already. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He looks left and right before looking back at me. "Yeah. Can I come in?"

I step back and let him enter, not missing the way that his eyes wander around my living room, taking everything in. I tighten the tie on my robe while I wait for him to speak, and when he doesn't, I start to wonder about just why he's here.

"Toby, what are you doing here?" I'm still standing close to the door, only having moved a few steps in.

"I needed to talk to you," he tells me, once again looking all around him, his gaze finally landing on the silent television. "You weren't watching the news?"

"At five in the morning?" I shake my head. "I was in bed. Asleep. Toby, what is it?"

One hand is on his hip, the other reaches up to rub his forehead. "There's something you should know Ginger. And I came here to tell you, because I didn't want you to hear this on the news, or this morning when you came in…"

He's rambling, talking with no real purpose, trying to put off telling me whatever it is he came here to say. And that makes me nervous. In actual fact, that terrifies me. Toby Ziegler is a man of few words, and even when he's passionately arguing about something, he never uses words wastefully. "Toby," I repeat, stepping closer to him. "What's wrong?"

He takes a deep breath, and he moves towards me as he speaks. "Ginger, there was an accident." His voice is the same voice he used when he spoke to me in the bullpen right after the shooting. "Mrs Landingham was driving back to the White House after picking up her new car. A couple of kids, who had too much to drink, ran a red light and…"

There's a dull roaring in my ears and my breath is coming hard and fast. I can see Toby standing in front of me, and I can hear every word he's saying, but behind him I can see a street in New Jersey in November and a bright light in the corner of my eye. And over his words I can hear a scream and a series of thuds, and I close my eyes tightly, trying to make it go away. But that only brings the images into clearer focus and there's an ache in my stomach that wasn't there before, and when I open my eyes again, Toby's looking at me, his hands resting gently on my shoulders.

"Ginger…" he begins, but I cut him off.

I never cut Toby off when he's speaking, but somewhere in my head is the thought that if I speak, if he stops talking then everything will go away and my world will make sense again, and I won't feel this ache anymore. "Which hospital is she in? Because I can get dressed and then we can go and see her and-"

"Ginger." One word. One word delivered in that same tone of voice halts me quicker than a shout from him ever has. I look at him, really look at him, and I see his eyes.

I can't describe the look in his eyes, but I know where I've seen it before.

It was when I woke up in a New Jersey hospital room to see my mother sitting beside my bed. I didn't know where I was at first, but then everything came back to me. And she didn't have to tell me that my husband was dead, she didn't have to confirm what I already knew, because the look in her eyes did it for her.

That's the look that Toby has in his eyes.

The dull roaring in my ears gets louder and louder, and I can see that Toby's lips are moving, but I'm not able to hear anything that comes out of them. I can't take my eyes away from his, until everything around me disappears into a roaring blackness.

The next thing I know, the roaring is gone, and I can hear again. Toby's talking to me, and I can feel one arm around my shoulders, supporting me. His other hand is on my cheek, tapping it gently, and I can feel the material of his coat against my other cheek. "Ginger? C'mon Ginger, wake up, it's ok. It's all right." I try to blink, not an easy task when your eyelids feel as if they're made out of cement, but I must do something right, because I can hear the relief in his voice. "Good girl, come on…that's the way…"

I don't know how long it is before I'm able to lift my head, and a quick glimpse around assures me that I'm sitting on the floor of my living room, and that Toby, by all appearances, is sitting on the floor as well, with me wrapped in his arms.

"Oh God," is the first thing I mutter groggily.

"You ok?" he asks. From the look on his face immediately after, I can tell that he knows what an utterly ridiculous question that is. I try to shake my head, but it's too much effort, and I close my eyes again and let my head fall back onto his chest. I feel him sigh, and the hand that's around my shoulders reaches around to move through my hair.

We stay like that until he speaks again. "C'mon Ginger, let's try to get you up on the couch there." Still supporting me by my shoulders, as if he's afraid I'm going to collapse again, he stands, before pulling me to my feet, letting me lean against him when I do indeed almost fall over.

We're shuffling to the couch when an urge to giggle comes over me, and I'm helpless to stop it. "I never faint," I tell him through the giggles, and he sits me down on the couch, smoothing back my hair with a sad little grin on his face.

"I know."

He stands, leaving me sitting there, still giggling to myself. In the background, I hear him opening and closing the kitchen cupboards, then the sound of running water. But my gaze fixes on the picture on the mantel, the one of Alan and me on our wedding day. I can remember us when it was taken; the photographer had told us some silly joke in an attempt to get us to smile, but we hadn't needed the help. All we'd had to do was look at each other that day and we beamed. The giggles slowly disappear as memories overwhelm me, and it suddenly hits me that he's been dead for longer than we were married. That revelation makes me unspeakably sad, and I can feel a lump forming in my throat.

The couch shifts and I turn my head to see Toby holding out a glass of water. "Drink this," he tells me. "It'll help."

I seriously doubt it, but I do as I'm told, even though my hand is shaking so badly I'm sure I'm going to spill it everywhere. When half the glass is gone, I hand it back to him and he places it on the coffee table. He raises his hand to my cheeks and brushes them gently, and it's only then that I realise that tears are streaming from my eyes. "It's ok," he tells me yet again, before he takes me into his arms. "Let it out. It's ok."

I think he's expecting me to sob or something, but I can't. That doesn't stop me leaning against him, resting my head against his chest. He's taken off his coat, and his suit jacket is scratchy against my skin, but it feels nice. It feels real. My hands grip his sleeves as if I'm afraid that he's going to disappear, which I'm very afraid he might.

It's the early hours of the morning and I'm curled up on my couch in the arms of my boss. Which reminds me…

"Why did you come here?"

"Hmm?"

I repeat my question. "Why did you come here Toby? Why did you want to tell me?"

He sighs. "Because I know about your husband." I look at the picture again, and I know he's seen it too. "And I wasn't sure if anyone else did. I didn't want to take the chance of someone telling you who didn't."

"Mrs Landingham was the only one who knew. And Zoey." But he knew about Zoey.

"She was?"

I nod. "She noticed everything. She saw my rings on the chain one day and asked about them, so I told her. She was so nice…" My throat closes over, and I realise that there's something he hasn't told me, something I need to know. "Did she suffer?" That's very important to me right now.

It takes him so long to answer that I'm afraid he mustn't have heard me. "Leo said that it was instant."

"Good," I whisper. "I'm glad." I realise quickly how that must sound, and I'm about to explain it when I feel him nod.

"I know."

I think of Mrs Landingham for a moment, and all she did to help me when I began working on the campaign, and again when I became Toby's assistant. She was always there, no matter what the problem was, no matter how big or small. I can see her, walking around saying things to the President or about the President, that none of the rest of us would ever dream of saying. Her little smile, her way of noticing everything, her cookie jar. I try to picture walking into that room and not seeing her any more, and I just can't. I don't know how we're going to go on without her. That brings up another thought. "How's the President?"

"I haven't seen him," Toby tells me. "Leo said that Abbey was with him."

I think of the week that was ahead of us, the week that already looked unbearable looking now even worse. "This on top of everything else…" I murmur.

"He'll be ok," Toby tells me. I don't know which one of us he's trying to convince.

"What about the rest of us?" I wonder.

"Do you remember the night of the Midterm Elections?" he asks suddenly.

I frown. "The Sculpture Garden?" I ask, remembering my talk with Zoey, then my talk with him.

He chuckles softly to himself. "We had this exact same conversation," he tells me. "Except in reverse. I was the one doing all the questioning, and you had all the answers."

I can't remember the specifics like he can; Toby's memory has always been astonishing that way. I do remember what he'd been like then, trying to fight the hate groups all on his own, angry at the world. "What did I say?"

"I asked you how you could go on when it seemed like the whole world was falling apart around you. And you told me that you just do. That you just keep going, and every day it gets a little easier, a little better."

"I wish I could believe that right now."

"I said that too. And you told me that I'd just have to trust you. But you were right you know. It does get better. We just have to remember that."

I sigh and close my eyes, and I can feel myself beginning to drift off back to sleep when the phone rings. I try to move, but Toby's arms tighten around me. "Let the machine get it," he says.

Margaret's voice fills the room, and I can tell that she's crying. She tells me that she's sorry to do this, but when I hear this message that I have to ring her in the office as soon as I can, and that she'll try again in a few minutes.

I sit up, and this time Toby lets me. "They're calling people to tell them before they come in," I guess.

"Yeah." He rests his arms on his knees and looks down at the carpet.

"You'll need to write a statement," I realise, and as I look at him, I realise that that's the same suit that he had on yesterday. Same shirt, same tie, same everything.

"Yeah."

He's still not looking at me, and another realisation dawns on me. "Toby. Sam's already there isn't he? He's been there all night, and so have you."

He looks up briefly, rubbing his hand over his face. "Yeah."

"But you left. To come here."

I wait for his response, and he looks directly at me this time when he says, "Yes."

My hand flies up to my mouth. He needs to be in the office right now, drafting a statement for the President of the United States. Two statements actually, one for Mrs Landingham, one for Wednesday. But instead, he came here because he knew this news was going to hit me harder than any of the other assistants and he didn't want me to find out from someone who didn't understand why. He sees my reaction and looks back down at the carpet again. "You're a very sweet man you know," I tell him, and he looks up at me, then back down quickly, but not so quickly that I don't see the self-conscious little grin on his face.

"Yeah, well…don't tell anyone."

Against all odds, I find myself laughing. "Wouldn't dream of it," I tell him before standing, all on my own this time, and quite steadily. "You should go ahead. I'll call Margaret…get dressed."

He stands, nodding as he walks to the door. "I don't want you driving," he tells me as he reaches the door. "Get a cab, and a receipt. I'll get it expensed for you."

I smile as I open the door for him. "Thank you Toby." On an impulse, I reach over and hug him. He hesitates for a second before he wraps his arms around me.

The phone picks that moment to begin ringing and he pulls away from me, looking at me with his head tilted, a question in his eyes. "Go," I tell him.

He leaves and I sprint across the floor to answer the phone, knowing before I do that it's going to be Margaret. I pick up and listen to her as I move to the window telling her that I'll be in as soon as I can, but my attention is only half on the conversation. On the street, the early morning light is starting to filter through, and I can see Toby looking up at my window as he gets into his car, still looking out for me even now. And as I stand there, I send a silent prayer of thanks to God, or Alan or Mrs Landingham or whoever it was who sent him here to me to break my fall.


End file.
